Summer in the City: The perfect feel-good summer romance

by Emma Jackson

  No. Nope. I didn’t think I was. He’d walked away from his son and then got married to someone and never even told her? And instead of grovelling at Stephen’s feet he had the audacity to ask him to keep up the pretence with his new wife. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to keep my mouth shut if she asked who we were – but if Stephen was happy to go along with it, then it wasn’t my place. I wondered if he had some more of that wire so I could fix up my own flabbergasted maw.

  My anger abated when we went inside. The air was stuffy and smelled of sickness, that uncomfortable mix of medicine and body fluids that couldn’t quite be covered up by cleaning products.

  Trevor pointed us towards his sitting room as he went to a door at the back of the house. There was a large armchair, with an oxygen machine next to it. We took the small sofa facing the TV. There was the murmur of voices from a room at the back of the house and the snick of the door closing before Trevor appeared again.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  Stephen and I both shook our heads. Trevor hovered for a moment and then perched on the arm of the big chair. It was such a Stephen thing to do, that it weirded me out.

  I’d expected the physical similarities though and you really could see that he was Stephen’s dad. No wonder that ex-girlfriend had recognised him in Stephen. His eyes were just the same and despite the lines the shape of his face was similar too. He had a bigger nose though and his lips had thinned, but you could see he would’ve been a knockout when he was younger. He looked like he’d lived his life to the max, smoking and drinking, that ravaged, wrung-out look of an ancient rock star all over him. Stephen wasn’t going to look like that. He ate well and exercised, he didn’t smoke or overindulge with drink often that I’d noticed. That was something I could immediately see was totally different between them.

  Oh, and I didn’t believe for a second that Stephen could walk away from his own child.

  It was silent in the room and I stole a glance at Stephen. He was staring at his father, maybe noticing all those things too. The silence stretched out. Was this some kind of power display? Forcing his father to speak first. If he was, it succeeded.

  ‘I expect you want answers.’ Trevor linked his hands before him and looked down at the floor like a kid being chastised.

  ‘A couple.’ Stephen was cool as a long island iced tea. James Bond. Mr Frosty. I was almost starting to feel sorry for his father. Almost. ‘You see, my mother left you some money and I’d like to know why. Also…’ He looked at me and gestured to my handbag. ‘May I?’ When I offered it up, he pulled out the big brown padded envelope and held it out to Trevor. ‘She had this in the back of a wardrobe for you. I needed to pass it on.’

  Trevor took the envelope and stared at it. When he lifted his head, his eyes were shining with tears. ‘Left me money? What do you mean? Is she…?’

  ‘She passed away last year.’ Stephen swallowed hard but I doubted Trevor noticed.

  ‘How? Was it cancer? My wife, she’s got—’

  ‘I’m sorry your wife’s ill, but no, it wasn’t an illness. It was an accident. And when they read the will, she’d left you £1297.78. We didn’t know where you were to let you know.’ He slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a business card. ‘This is the solicitor to get in touch with. So, just tell me why she left you money and I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Stevie.’

  I felt Stephen flinch next to me. Now I got why he didn’t like having his name shortened like that.

  ‘You’ve got no idea? None at all? It’s a very specific sum of money. And I’m really struggling to wrap my head around why she felt she owed you anything. At all.’ The angry edge was creeping back into his voice. I put my hand on his knee.

  Trevor shook his head in despair and wiped absently at a tear that had escaped his eye. ‘She was a generous woman…’

  Stephen’s breathing was starting to speed up, his muscles bunching beneath my hand, like he was going to explode, and I knew he wouldn’t want that.

  ‘Maybe it would be a good idea to give him your contact details?’ I spoke quietly to Stephen. ‘In case anything comes back to him later?’

  ‘I suppose.’ He gritted out. ‘Is it worth me doing that?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? I’ll think on it and get in touch if I figure it out. It’s the least I can do. I mean, I wouldn’t even take the money. It’s just with Sandra ill, every cent helps…’

  Stephen nodded and asked me if I had a pen. I grabbed my notebook and he wrote out his current address and phone number in slashing, slanted handwriting that threatened to rip the paper. He stood and gave it to him. ‘I’m going to be here until the end of August.’

  Trevor took it and looked up at him. ‘God, look at you. Little Stevie,’ he said wonderingly. That was the kind of thing a distant uncle or old family friend did when they saw you after ten years. Not a dad who’d abandoned you. ‘Are you going now?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t take up much of your time.’

  ‘Right. There’s nothing else you want to talk about?’

  Stephen squinted at him, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing and hearing. ‘If you’d wanted to know anything about me, you should’ve stuck around or at least kept in contact. You chose not to do that. I’ve done my duty according to what my mum wanted and now we’re done.’

  Trevor frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Stephen didn’t wait around. He walked out the door and I scuttled after him, caught unawares by the sudden exit, scrabbling for my bag and jogging to catch up with him as he started down the road.

  ‘Stephen. Stephen, are you okay?’ I grabbed his arm and he stopped.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’m fine.’ He nodded and took a deep breath, setting his shoulders back as though a weight had been lifted from them.

  ‘Are you sure? You didn’t even get the answer you wanted. Didn’t you want to hear him explain himself? I know it wouldn’t change anything, but he at least should have said sorry to you. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I don’t think it would make any difference to how I feel. And why should I do anything that might help clear his conscience. No.’ He put his hands on my shoulders with exaggerated gentleness, like he was making an extraordinary effort to contain his anger. ‘I’m okay, Noelle. We found him. I met him. I passed on the things my mother left him. It’s done. I can forget about it now.’ He smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Okay…’ I wasn’t convinced. Despite all the body language and his tone of voice, his eyes were blank inside. ‘What now then?’

  ‘Nothing—’

  ‘Wait. Wait!’ His father was behind us, walking fast, the envelope still in his hands.

  Stephen stiffened and stayed where he was but didn’t say anything until Trevor reached us.

  ‘This isn’t mine it’s yours.’ Trevor held out the envelope, his hand shaking a little. The opening was torn.

  ‘It was addressed to you.’

  ‘I know, but it’s yours.’ He repeated and shook the bag at Stephen again. ‘It’s every birthday card I sent you. Postcards. Some magazines. I sent you stuff for years. And it looks like she didn’t want you to see any of it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s probably easier to just take a look.’

  Stephen looked at the envelope like it contained anthrax. He didn’t move to take it. He didn’t speak.

  When I reached out for it, Stephen’s eyes flashed to me sharply. Maybe in anger. Maybe in thanks for doing what he couldn’t. I didn’t know. I just figured, he needed time, and if he walked away without the envelope, he might regret it more than if he took it with him and decided to put it in the bin.

  ‘Well, I need to get back but, I’ll contact you if I figure out what the money was for—’ Trevor broke off because Stephen was already walking away again. Perhaps he wanted him to know what it felt like?

  I couldn’t help but notice, he kept leaving me
behind too.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stephen was acting as though he was completely fine, but some wall had gone up inside. He’d apologised for walking away again but didn’t want to talk about anything that had just happened. I buried my disappointment at his distance and told myself he probably needed time to process his feelings. The shock of meeting the father who abandoned him and hearing that his deceased mother had been keeping secrets, was enough to make anyone retreat inside themselves.

  We got back to his place in the late afternoon and he offered to cook me dinner. I opened his balcony doors and we ate at the table, the sound of traffic and music from other people’s open windows filtering in. He asked me more about my book and about publishing in general, and I knew he was listening…but I also knew he wasn’t really there.

  It didn’t stop me from melting under his touch when he pulled me against him in the kitchen as we cleaned up the dishes. From wrapping myself around him as he pressed me up against the fridge, but I didn’t stay the night, and he didn’t ask me to.

  Space. He probably needed space, I told myself repeatedly.

  But as the week dragged on and I didn’t hear from him, the doubts began to creep in. Had he lost interest already? The search for his father was done and maybe we were done too?

  I’d known this was a possibility. I’d gone into this with my eyes open as to who he was…but the Stephen I’d seen recently had made me think that he was capable of and wanted more, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. I was teetering on the edge of wanting to believe I’d been right to give this thing between us a chance and the resignation that, yet again, I’d fallen for Type A and was going to swiftly be dumped.

  I tried not to let it send me crazy, but it was hard now that I didn’t even have my book to distract me and I was on tenterhooks waiting to hear back from my editor. I was determined I wasn’t going to call him though. If this was it for us, I wasn’t going to act all thirsty. I’d done enough begging and compromising on Independence Day – ha, what an irony that was. I just wished half of me wasn’t as worried about him as I was about myself.

  My cell phone pinged on Thursday at nearly midnight when I was lying in bed trying to relax my mind and go to sleep. Not an easy task when the heat lay on top of me like a pile of furs. I leapt for it and for the first time all week my heart didn’t drop with disappointment.

  Stephen: Sorry I’ve not been in touch and it’s

  late. How are you?

  I debated not answering for a nanosecond so that I didn’t come off as though I’d been sitting at home waiting for him to call. But I couldn’t do that. What if he wanted to talk about what happened?

  Me: I’m great. How are you?

  Stephen: Good, just busy. It’s Patrick’s last

  week so I’ve had back-to-back meetings. It’s

  his leaving drinks tomorrow. Would you like

  to come with me? I know it’s short notice. I

  meant to ask you sooner. I’d really appreciate

  it. It’s on a yacht.

  So, no mention of how he was feeling about seeing his dad. And…he’d appreciate me going for these leaving drinks with him? Was it supposed to be a date or a favour? Or was he just tired and I was reading too much into his word choice.

  I lowered my cell phone into my lap and chewed on my nail. It wasn’t exactly the effusive request to see him again that I’d been hoping for but there was no reason for him to invite me, other than the fact he wanted to see me.

  Me: Go on then. As it’s on a yacht. ;)

  Stephen: Great. I’ll pick you up at 8pm.

  I blew out a breath and slumped back onto my pillows. Drinks with his work colleagues on a yacht. I’d been imagining a reunion of a far more private nature. One where we could catch up properly and I could see what was going on with him. One where I could take his pants off once I’d checked his emotional health was sound.

  But beggars could not be choosers and now I had to figure out what one wore to a party on a goddamn yacht.

  I was held up at work waiting on a call from the Sydney office and had to ask Noelle to meet me at Pier 25. We all had to be on the yacht by a certain time since it was a surprise party for Patrick, but I felt like crap for doing it that way when I had barely spoken to her all week.

  In fact, every decision I was making this week was making me feel like crap. I hadn’t lied to Noelle about work being busy. The meetings Patrick had finally got around to arranging with key clients had gone well despite his intense panicking, but there were still a couple that needed to happen and now there wasn’t the time, I was going to have to ask Georgina.

  And then Nick had contacted me about when he was flying over here in just over a week and I’d barely had time to respond to him either. I hadn’t wanted to get into the details of what happened with Trevor via text and I didn’t have time to call him and talk about it, so now I felt like I’d been lying to him.

  All of this hadn’t stopped me from wanting to call Noelle up and invite her over when I finally got home from work every day. To lose myself in her soft body and witty banter and keep all the thoughts at bay that plagued me in the quiet of the night. But she deserved better than to be used as a distraction. I was still trying to be better for her.

  I’d intended to get a handle on things before I saw her again, but I didn’t know what to do with the new information from Trevor. I knew what he looked like now. He was real. I knew exactly what he looked like and I knew the sound of his voice. I heard it, over and over, telling me he’d kept me a secret from his wife, but also that he’d sent me birthday cards and Mum had hidden them.

  Why would she do that? Why would she let me think I’d been completely and utterly forgotten?

  When did he give up sending them?

  Perhaps going through the envelope that Noelle had tactfully left on my table before she left at the weekend would have helped but I couldn’t face it. So, I had to accept my failure to put it all behind me before I saw Noelle again. I couldn’t wait to see her any longer.

  When I saw her at the entrance to the dock, looking out over the Hudson, I realised it was a miracle I’d waited this long. She was wearing a white dress with black polka dots and a big black belt around her waist. It accentuated her 1950s’ Hollywood hourglass figure perfectly. She was also wearing that ludicrously large sun hat, probably just to piss me off, so I couldn’t help but smile. It may have been the first genuine smile I’d had on my face in days.

  She waved when she spotted me as I was walking alongside the grass and flowerbeds towards her, but I didn’t return the greeting. I couldn’t. It would put precious seconds between seeing her and holding her. I caught her at the waist and held her tight against me as I lowered my mouth to hers. She seemed stunned for a moment but then she wrapped her arms around my neck. I tried to take it slowly but the heat between us flared up, pulling me in, calling me on to go faster, deeper. She sighed into me in that way that unhinged me, and I had to break away before it got out of hand. We were both breathless and she was gratifyingly boneless as I managed to drag myself away, her cheeks pink and grey eyes twinkling.

  ‘Well, hello there, sailor.’ Her smile lit me up. She reached up and rubbed her thumb across my lips. ‘Lipstick,’ she explained.

  ‘You’d better get used to doing that tonight,’ I warned her, nipping her thumb before she removed it. ‘You look good enough to eat.’

  ‘Is that so? Even with the hat?’ Her grin widened.

  ‘It’s growing on me. You look like Kate Winslet in Titanic.’

  Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Is that a good thing, considering we’re about to go on a boat?’

  ‘Not superstitious, are you?’

  ‘All good Irish Catholics are. And a lot of superstitions are just common sense.’

  I took her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it and leading her through the white metal gates. God I’d missed her. I debated blowing off the drinks on the yacht altogether in favour of taking he
r to my place and staying there all weekend. If it had been for anyone other than Patrick, I would’ve done. The dock stretched out a long way into the river with all sorts of boats moored there, from small private sailing yachts to tour boats and super yachts.

  ‘And what superstitions do you class as good sense?’

  ‘Well, don’t walk under ladders.’

  ‘Okay, I’d have to agree with that one. Big health and safety issue.’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t put shoes on the table.’

  ‘I thought that saying was about putting shoes on the bed?’

  ‘Bed – table – I’m not fussy.’

  I looked down at her and quirked an eyebrow. ‘I’ll have to remember that.’

  She caught at her bottom lip, still vivid red, with her teeth and I saw the answering heat in her expression. We were definitely going to make our excuses as soon as possible tonight. ‘Enough of that talk. We have more important things to discuss.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I tried not to let my good humour slip. I didn’t want to talk about my ‘feelings’. Not here. I couldn’t risk the way she unravelled me. She had a way of getting in my cracks.

  ‘Yes. Like, A) What is your work persona?’ She kept my hand in hers but lifted it to tick each item off on her fingers. ‘B) What are your work colleagues like? and C) How long do we have to stay?’

  ‘Did you write that list in bullet points in one of your notebooks?’

  ‘Yes. I used a different colour pen for each question, and I expect thorough answers.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ I paused, as we neared the mooring with Georgina’s boat. ‘My persona at work is…me, but professional I suppose, like most people at work. I’m still getting to know a lot of my work colleagues, so I can’t help you much there. In fact, your discerning eye would be really useful, so feel free to observe and judge.’

  ‘Oh, I always do.’

  ‘Great. And, with regards to how long we have to stay…as soon as we can escape, we will.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said casually, but the sideways look she slanted me was full of mischief and told me she was just as eager for that prospect as I was.